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PJ)  E  T  R  Y: 

A  SATIRE, 

PRONOUNCED  BEFORE  THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY  ASSOCIATION 
AT  ITS  TWENTY  SECOND  ANNIVERSARY 


PAEK  BENJAMIN. 


Price  25  cents. 


•«    . 
-  &n* 


POETRY; 


A  SATIRE, 


PRONOUNCED  BEFORE  THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY  ASSOCIATION  AT 
ITS  TWENTY  SECOND  ANNIVERSARY 


BY 


PAEK  BENJAMIN. 


NEW-YORK : 
J.    WINCHESTER,    30    ANN-STREET. 


I 

MDCCCXLII. 


John  F.  Tro-w,  Printer. 


TO 


ROBERT    H.    MORRIS, 

MAYOR  OF  THE  CITY  OF  NEW-YORK, 


FOR   WHOM, 


AS    A    MAN    AND     AS    A    MAGISTRATE, 


I 

; 

HE   ENTERTAINS 


THE  MOST  CORDIAL   REGARD  AND 


SINCERE   RESPECT, 


THIS    POEM     IS     INSCRIBED, 


BY    ITS    AUTHOR. 


oer>i 


PREFACE. 


THIS  poem — if  poem  it  can  be  called — is  published  at 
the  request  of  the  Board  of  Direction  of  the  Mercantile 
Library  Association.  It  was  written  at  a  month's  notice, 
and  in  the  midst  of  engagements,  which  distracted  the  at 
tention  of  the  author,  and  denied  him  that  leisure,  which 
is  so  essential  to  this  species  of  composition.  He  regrets 
that  he  was,  consequently,  unable  to  render  it  more  wor- 


thy  of  the  occasion,  and  of  the  respectable  audience,  before 
whom  it  was  pronounced. 

Had  more  time  been  allowed,  ampler  justice  could  have 
been  rendered  to  a  subject,  prolific  in  themes  for  satire ; 
such,  for  example,  as  the  political  song-making  of  the 
day,  and  the  solemn  absurdities  of  the  modern  Epic.  But 
it  was  required  of  the  speaker  that  he  should  consume 
no  greater  number  of  minutes,  than  Robin  Goodfellow 
took  to 

"  Put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth." 

Accordingly  it  became  a  duty  to  choose,  rather  than  to 
collect  topics ;  to  condense,  and  not  to  amplify.  To 
those,  who  are  accustomed  to  the  restraints  of  rhyme,  it 
need  not  be  told  how  difficult  it  is  to  say  much  in  a  few 
words. 


The  delivery  of  this  poem  was  preceded  by  a  dis 
course  from  a  gentleman,  who  is  justly  distinguished  for 
his  persuasive  and  kindling  eloquence.  Mr.  EAMES  gave 
an  oration,  abounding  with  lofty  ideas  and  splendid  im 
agery  ;  his  language  was  ornate  and  beautiful,  and  his 
finely-modulated  periods  had  the  dignity,  if  not  the  form 
of  heroic  verse.  Good  cause  was  there  for  apprehen 
sion  that  the  audience,  after  so  rich  an  intellectual  treat, 
could  not  be  interested  or  even  entertained  by  any  thing 
that  was  to  follow.  The  author  was,  therefore,  no  less 
surprised  than  gratified  at  the  indulgence  and  favor,  with 
which  his  hasty  performance  was  received. 

These  remarks  are  not  presented  to  excuse  error,  or 
to  avert  criticism  ;  to  the  latter  the  author  has,  perhaps, 
rendered  himself  peculiarly  obnoxious,  and  he  is  quite  wil 
ling  to  "bide  the  pelting  of  the  storm,"  however  "piti- 


8 

less"  it  may  be.  Here  in  verse  and  elsewhere  in  prose, 
he  has  uttered  but  the  Truth,  which  is  "mighty  and  will 
prevail,"  in  the  face  of  all  the  armies  of  Field-Marshal 
Humbug  and  General  Puff. 


POETRY: 


A    SATIRE. 


I. 

IN  DAYS  of  old,  when  Money  was  not  king, 
Heroes  and  statesmen  bade  the  minstrel  sing  : 
Lords  listened,  knights  applauded,  ladies  smiled, 
And  all  were  gentle  to  the  Muses'  child. 
No  door  refused  to  open  when  he  came, 
No  voice  but  kindly  spoke  his  honored  name ; 
For  him  warm  welcomes  waited,  festal  cheer, 
The  glad  wine  danced  and  foamed  the  jovial  beer. 


10 

On  him  broad  hands  a  lib'ral  guerdon  shed, 
Fair  hands  twined  laurels  for  his  living  head, 
And  dazzling  crowds,  assembled  round  his  lyre, 
Fed  with  bright  fuel  the  poetic  fire. 


Our  age  degen'rate  asks  no  wand'ring  bard  ; 
The  banks  have  broken  and  the  times  are  hard  ; 
Few  notes  are  current,  and  the  least  of  all, 
Notes  that  are  issued  when  the  critics  call. 
What  need  of  harpers,  when  in  every  street 
Flutes,  fiddles,  organs,  bagpipes,  loud  but  sweet? 
What  need  of  listeners,  when  a  motley  throng 
Of  urchins,  ragged  as  the  day  is  long, 
Peripatetic,  follow  in  the  train 
Of  him  or  her  who  wakes  the  deathless  strain  1 


11 

-. 

What  need  of  guerdon,  when  each  passing  flat 
Drops  some  loose  pennies  in  the  handed  hat  1 
Oh,  genius,  genius,  why  wilt  thou  complain, 
And,  like  a  spider,  spin  away  thy  brain  ; 
Why  wilt  thou  waste  thy  life's  green  hours  in  toil, 
And  burn  whole  gallons  of  superfluous  oil, 
When  twenty  dollars,  borrowed  from  a  friend, 
Will  buy  an  organ  and  thy  sorrows  end  ! 


II. 

This  my  exordium,  friends  of  learning,  take 

0 

In  very  kindness  for  your  poet's  sake. 
Invoked  by  you,  one  little  month  ago, 
He,  like  young  widows,  could  not  answer  "  No ;" 


12 

But  dared  to  try,  with  unreflecting  haste, 
A  wild  excursion  to  the  realms  of  taste. 
Brief  space  for  thought !  to  polish  line  on  line, 
As  boots  by  rubbing  more  intensely  shine ; 
Attempt  presumptuous,  rash  and  foolish  deed, 
To  drive  old  Pegasus  at  breakneck  speed  ! 
Yet  pause  ere  you  condemn :  if  fault  there  be, 
Perchance  it  lies  with  you  no  less  than  me. 
How  in  these  times,  these  dull,  prosaic  times, 
Came  you  to  dream  of  giving  people  rhymes  1 
Was't  not  enough  that  Eloquence  should  pour 
In  lavish  splendour  his  well-hoarded  store  ? 
That  Wit  and  Argument  and  Taste  and  Sense 
Should  their  rich  gifts  with  equal  hand  dispense  ? 
You  should  have  sought  a  Virgil  through  the  land, 
Or  placed  the  pen  in  Sprague's  or  Bryant's  hand  ; 


13 

For  mine,  though  vent'rous,  hardly  dares  essay 

To  light  my  lamp  amid  the  blaze  of  day. 

Great  men  have  been  among  you ;  you  have  heard 

From  lips  of  Science  many  a  golden  word : 

By  minds,  in  study  gloriously  arrayed, 

Yours  have  been  larger,  brighter,  holier  made ; 

How  poor  my  task  compared  with  such  as  theirs, 

Like  mortal  music  to  celestial  airs ! 


III. 

My  theme  is  poetry.     Could  I  unfold    . 
Spontaneous  fancies  like  those  bards  of  old, 
Who  lived  and  flourished  in  the  kindling  air 
Of  Inspiration,  I  might  hope  to  share 


14 

At  least  a  portion  of  the  ready  praise, 
That  erst  was  yielded  to  impromptu  lays : 

But  fact  not  fable  it  is  mine  to  sing, 

i 

And  Truth's  strong  air  impedes  the  rapid  wing. 
Ah  !  that  short  day  has  passed  to  come  no  more, 

When  crowds  flocked  round  the  merry  Troubadour. 

\ 

We  modern  minstrels,  slaves  to  pen  and  ink, 

Before  we  warble  are  constrained  to  think. 
He,  who  would  speak  and  fitting  audience  find, 
Must  pour  his  treasures  from  a  cultured  mind, 
And  to  the  critic's  cautious  eye  display 
Well-pondered  objects,  set  in  fair  array. 


Verse  is  an  art,  by  diligence  acquired, 
To  be  long  wooed  and  fervently  desired, 


15 

Ere.  like  a  maiden,  passionate  and  pure, 
Her  smiles  are  granted  and  her  faith  secure. 
She  is  no  flirt,  no  flippant,  gay  coquette, 
Who  now  will  flatter  and  anon  will  fret ; 
This  moment  fond  and  beautiful  appears, 
With  cheeks  all  blushes  and  with  eyes  all  tears ; 
The  next  a  cold,  pert,  scornful,  fro  ward  minx, 
Prone  to  annoy,  and  puzzling  as  the  Sphinx ; 

Her  favors  once  bestowed  are  always  given, 

< 

Certain  as  light,  unchangeable  as  Heaven. 
Oh,  in  what  hours  of  weariness  and  strife, 
That  have  o'erclouded  many  a  noble  life, 
Hast  thou,  oh  soother  of  the  soul,  applied 
Thy  gentle  balm  to  heal  the  wounds  of  pride ! 
How  has  thy  love,  through  years  of  suffering  bless'd 
The  pilgrim  gazing  toward  the  realms  of  rest. 


16 

The  rightful  poet,  though  not  doomed  to  feel 
"  Luke's  iron  crown  or  Damien's  bed  of  steel," 
Knows  pangs  as  keen  as  tyrants  could  impose, 
When  they  for  whom  he  labors  are  his  foes  ; 
When  men,  made  better  if  they  would  but  hear, 
Wring  with  a  frown  and  torture  with  a  sneer, 
And  women,  tender  to  the  faults  of  fools, 
Adjudge  his  actions  by  the  strictest  rules. 
With  feelings  warm  as  those  bright  jets  that  flow 
From  frozen  Iceland's  mountain-wastes  of  snow, 
Though  cold  in  manners  and  in  look  austere, 
His  heart's  flood  gushes  to  a  smile  or  tear, 
And  one  kind  word  from  lips  he  loves  can  win 
His  thoughts  from  sorrow  and  his  deeds  from  sin. 
Join  not,  my  friends,  the  dull  insensate  throng 
Who  rudely  trample  on  the  flowers  of  song; 


17 

But  tend  and  nurture  with  unfailing  care, 
The  plants  of  genius  in  our  native  air. 
Point,  if  you  will,  against  the  puny  tribe 
Of  puling  rhymesters  cutting  jest  and  gibe; 
Laugh  at  the  fops  and  damsels  in  their  teens 
Who  softly  soap  the  Monthly  Magazines  ; 
From  Satire's  quiver  keenest  arrows  shoot 
To  strike  these  buzzards  of  Parnassus  mute  ; 
But  guard  with  kindness  from  sarcastic  aim 
The  tuneful  birds,  the  nightingales  of  fame. 


'Tis  not  my  purpose  sagely  to  recite 

9 

How  poets  should  or  how  they  should  not  write ; 
Or  to  describe  the  various  wave-like  styles, — 

How  this  regurgitates  and  that  resiles  : 

3 


18 

How  metres  short  like  little  billows  break, 
And  how  long  metres  leave  a  lengthy  wake. 
I  cannot  see  in  poems,  when  they  fail, 
A  woman's  body  with  a  fish's  tail — 
And,  if  I  could,  'twould  be  in  vain  to  tell 
What  other  critics  have  discussed  so  well, 
In  prose  and  verse,  in  light  and  weighty  tomes, 
Both  old  and  new,  from  Horace  down  to  Holmes. 
Yet  let  me  pay  a  tribute  to  the  tongue, 
That  o'er  our  infant  sleep  our  mothers  sung. 
Though  much  decried,  there's  music  in  the  jar 
Of  our  rough,  native  language ;  sweeter  far 
To  ears  accustomed,  than  the  liquid  glide 
Of  Gallic  river  or  Italian  tide. 
Oh,  that  our  tongue  were  limpid  as  at  first, 
When  from  primeval  founts  it  purely  burst  ! 


19 

Give  me  the  Saxon,  bubbling  on  the  ear 
Like  a  swift  stream,  that  sparkles  cool  and  clear ; 
I  hate  your  Norman  phrases  grand  and  fine, 
That  spoil  the  vigour  while  they  oil  the  line. 
Sesquipedalian,  and  of  foreign  sound, 
Transplanted  logs  that  cumber  English  ground. 
Words  terse  and  simple  best  convey  the  thought, 
By  Genius  prompted  and  by  Wisdom  taught ; 
And  Truth,  like  perfect  loveliness,  can  boast 
To  be,  when  unadorned,  adorned  the  most. 


IV. 

The  common  objects  in  our  paths  supply 
Shapes  that  are  charming  to  the  poet's  eye. 


20 

Pictures,  as  soft  as  ever  Guido  drew, 

He  finds  reflected  in  a  drop  of  dew, 

And  colours,  mingled  with  a  Titian's  skill, 

On  a  flower's  leaf  he  traces  at  his  will. 

The  golden  insect,  from  a  worm  that  springs, 

And  upward  soars  on  frail  yet  brilliant  wings ; 

Type  of  the  soul  appears,  released  from  earth, 

To  sport  and  revel  in  a  heavenly  birth. 

Such  happy  fancies  can  the  poet  find ; 

They  are  the  light  and  solace  of  his  mind  ; 

They  yield  him  inward  peace,  when  outward  life 

Is  one  long  scene  of  turbulence  and  strife. 

When  friends  grow  cold  and  fortune's  favors  fail, 

Imagination  spreads  her  airy  sail ; 

Her  barque  floats  freely  over  cloud  and  mist 

To  purer  climes,  by  milder  sunbeams  kiss'd. 


21 

Perch'd  in  a  garret,  nearer  to  the  skies 
Than  less  aspiring  mortals  choose  to  rise, 
He  longs  for  wings  to  cleave  the  blue  profound 
Like  Shelley's  lark,  a  spurner  of  the  ground. 
He  spends  his  hours,  with  -little  else  to  spend, 
As  if  each  six  months  brought  its  dividend ; 
Honest  and  poor,  the  little  that  he  gains 
Supplies  him  needful  books  and  life  sustains  ; 
And  free  from  debt,  in  independent  state, 
He  feels  no  envy  of  the  rich  and  great. 
His  mind,  exalted  by  its  lofty  aim 
With  grief  may  be  familiar,  not  with  shame ; 
For,  shunning  vice,  he  runs  his  mild  career, 
And  looks  to  Heaven  for  bliss  denied  him  here. 


22 

Contrast  this  portrait,  not  in  fond  conceit 

Sketch'd  from  a  model  long  since  obsolete, 

With  one  I  might,  but  will  not,  dare  not  draw, 

Because  I  rev'rence  wealth  and  fear  the  law. 

No  boy  e'er  gazed  with  more  entire  respect 

On  martial  hero  in  his  trappings  deck'd, 

Than  I  on  men,  by  mighty  Mammon  made 

The  sons  of  traffick  and  the  slaves  of  trade. 

What  can  be  nobler  than  our  lives  to  give 

To  gain  the  very  means  whereby  we  live ; 

To  rise  at  morning  and  forget  to  pray, 

Intent  upon  the  business  of  the  day  ; 

The  day  concluded,  to  retire  to  rest 

And  dream  what  stocks,  what  markets  are  the  best ! 

What  can  be  worthier  of  immortal  man 

Than  these  grand  maxims  :  get  whate'er  you  can, 


23 

Keep  all  you  get,  be  careful  how  you  spend, 

Know  well  your  customers,  and  never  lend ! 

So  shall  the  world  upon  its  axle  roll, 

And  every  turn  bring  comfort  to  your  soul : 

So  shall  your  bank-account  be  figured  wide, 

And  every  figure  on  the  proper  side : 

So  shall  your  wife  in  coach  and  Cashmere  shawl 

Drive  down  Broadway,  the  wonderment  of  all  : 

So  shall  your  son,  returned  from  foreign  tour, 

Hirsutely  horrid,  fright  the  gaping  boor  : 

So  shall  your  daughter  come  from  boarding-school, 

In  all,  but  French  and  flattery,  a  fool : 

So  shall  you  smile  with  ill-concealed  disdain 

On  old,  poor  friends,  whose  presence  causes  pain  : 

So  shall  you,  every  Sunday,  in  your  pew, 

Devoutly  curse  Turk,  Infidel  and  Jew : 


24 

So  shall  you  live,  without  a  grief  or  care, 
And  die  and  go — I  need  not  mention  where. 


"  Is  trade  so  low  1    Are  all  pursuits  so  base 
In  which  to  gather  money,  toil  our  race  ? 
Must  we,  of  course,  be  deemed  averse  to  high 
And  manly  learning,  if  we  sell  and  buy  ? 
Can  we  not  prize  the  godlike  and  the  true 
Which  Art  and  Science  open  to  our  view  ? 
Let  Hist'ry  answer  from  her  teeming  page ; 
Answer  the  records,  kept  from  age  to  age 
Of  mightier  ones  than  heroes,  princely,  great,- 
Not  props  alone,  but  rulers  of  the  state ; 
Not  friends  alone  to  genius,  but  possessed 
Of  intellectual  powers,  the  noblest,  best. 


25 

Answer  yourselves !  Instruction's  youthful  friends — 
On  whom  the  city's  future  weal  depends. 
Why  have  you  fixed  amid  the  homes  of  trade 
A  learned  retreat,  an  Academic  shade? 
Why,  at  your  kind  command,  year  after  year, 
Do  sages  speak,  and  numbers  throng  to  hear  ? 
From  you,  thus  raised  above  the  sordid  thought 
That  man's  chief  good  in  money  must  be  sought, 
Even  poets,  reckless  as  they  are  of  fame, 
A  gen'rous  feeling  for  their  art  may  claim. 
And  yet  some  reasons  have  we  to  deplore 
That  the  bright  reign  of  Poetry  is  o'er ; 
That  in  her  fav'rite  haunts  no  more  she  roves, 
But  dwells  secluded  in  deep,  sombre  groves, 
In  caves  forlorn,  rude  glens  and  deserts  wild, 

By  foaming  floods  and  rocks  in  ruin  piled. 

4 


26 

Behold  the  Drama  !  once  the  Muses'  friend  : 
When  will  her  night  of  degradation  end  1 
When  will  the  spirit  of  true  Art  return 
And  from  her  altars  dogs  and  dancers  spurn  ? 
When  will  a  Garrick,  matchless  and  alone, 
Crowned  by  Thalia,  mount  her  ancient  throne? 
When  will  another  mind-controlling  Kean 
Lend  real  grandeur  to  the  mimic  scene  ? 
Now,  on  that  stage,  for  which  Ben  Jonson  wrote, 
Struts  paltry  Pantomime  in  motley  coat. 
Where  stately  Congreve  and  sententious  Ford 
And  moving  Massinger  were  once  adored, 
Frail  feeble  wits  prodigious  puffs  receive, 
The  groundlings  giggle,  the  judicious  grieve. 
Where  Kemble,  Young,  "the  Siddons"  and  O'Neill 
Taught  human  nature  human  woes  to  feel, 


27 

Alluring  Ellsler  wins  the  town's  applause, 
Celeste  enraptures,  and  Van  Amburgh  draws  ! 
Of  yore  th'  intent  and  business  of  the  stage 
Was  to  expose  the  follies  of  the  age, 
Or  from  grave  knowledge  lessons  to  translate 
And  teach  the  dictates  and  decrees  of  Fate. 
For  this  the  grand,  old  masters  aptly  chose 
The  robes  of  verse  and  not  the  garb  of  prose. 
What  glorious  thoughts  in  glorious  lines  were  cast ! 
In  splendid  frames,  what  pictures  of  the  past ! 
What  lofty  sentiments  and  precepts  pure 

In  verse,  like  marble  sculptured  to  endure ! 

) 

Vast  is  the  debt  from  English  letters  due 

To  the  old  drama — little  to  the  new. 
Though  I  would  not  one  leaf  of  laurel  tear 
From  the  green  wreath  that  circles  Talfourd's  hair, 


28 

Or  be  esteemed  so  deaf  to  well- won  fame 
As  not  to  echo  Artevelde  Taylor's  name  ; 
Though  Milman,  Mitford,  and — if  last  not  least, 
Of  those  who  spread  the  genial,  Thespian  feast — 
Exuberant  Knowles,  the  cordial  praise  acquire 
Of  all  the  lovers  of  the  modern  lyre  ; 
Their  gifts  to  poetry  may  not  compare 
With  those  of  bards,  whom  Time  will  ever  spare, 
As  he  has  spared  for  ages,  undeformed, 
Though  bigots  storm  as  they  have  ever  stormed. 
No  floods  have  worn  thy  mighty  adamant 
Oh  first  of  poets  !     Criticism,  cant, 

i 

New  readings,  commentaries,  dash  their  rain 
Against  thy  firm  foundations,  all  in  vain. 
His  grave  is  humble :  but  what  pilgrims  throng, 
Who  deeply  love  the  Swan  of  Avon's  song, 


29 

To  bend,  with  feelings  more  devout  and  true 
Than  faithful  Moslems,  Mecca  full  in  view, 
Before  that  shrine,  long  hallowed  by  the  birth 
Of  SHAKSPEARE,  monarch  of  the  bards  of  earth  ! 


Not  mine  the  skill,  nor  yet  the  duty  mine 
To  sing  the  cause  of  Poetry's  decline ; 
Enough  if  I  from  rude  assault  defend, 
And  prove  myself  her  advocate  and  friend. 
Though  for  a  while  withdrawn  from  mortal  ken, 
She  shall  arise  and  sweetly  shine  again, 
Like  some  fair  star,  by  clouds  concealed  from  sight, 
That  glows,  rekindled,  with  superior  light. 

'Tis  a  sad  truth,  and  one  I  fain  would  hide, 


30 

That  even  the  fair  our  gentle  craft  deride. 
Though  some  there  be,  who  dare  to  write  and  print, 
Whose  lily  fingers  wear  an  inky  tint, 
Instead  of  scars  that  numerous  needles  make ; 
Some  who  will  scribble  when  they  ought  to  bake ; 
Yet  the  majority — oh  potent  word  ! — 
Deem  poets  foolish  and  their  lines  absurd. 
But  this  is  better  than  the  rhyming  rage — 
That  only  Wit  and  Satire  could  assuage — 
By  which,  not  long  ago,  the  female  breast 
By  turns  was  ravished  and  by  turns  distressed. 


"  Laura  Matilda" — fascinating  name  ! 
Legions  of  lovely  lyrists  longed  to  claim. 


31 

Each  mincing  miss,  absolved  from  book  and  slate, 
Filled  with  romance  her  poorly-furnished  pate  ; 
Sought  for  adventures,  sighed  for  constant  swains, 
Made  silly  rhymes  and  christened  them  "  refreins ;" 
Strolled  forth  by  moonlight,  wretched  and  alone, 
And  to  the  gales  rehearsed  her  piteous  moan : 
(The  gales,  unmoved,  ceased  not  their  rueful  roar, 
But,  as  she  moaned,  blew  louder  than  before ;) 
Nought  could  subdue  her  sentimental  woe, 
Nought  cause  her  tears  less  dolefully  to  flow — 
Till,  with  chameleon  diet  tired  at  last, 
Her  heart  she  mended  while  she  broke  her  fast; 
And  found  in  puddings,  not  to  mention  beef, 
A  pleasing  solace  and  a  mild  relief. 
Nor  girls  alone,  but  women,  grown  in  years, 
Resigned  their  souls  to  love's  delicious  fears  ; 


32 

Deplored  in  song  the  fickleness  of  men, 
And  wrote  and  wept,  and  wept  and  wrote  again. 
What  streams  of  nonsense  rushed  impetuous  down ! 
What  floods  of  twattle  deluged  all  the  town  ! 
How  many  beaux  to  mis'ry  were  consigned, 
Because  they  thought  of  marriage  more  than  mind ! 
How  many  husbands  were  condemned  to  scold 
O'er  locks  dishevelled,  and  o'er  dinners  cold  ! 
Mankind  despaired :  for  daughters,  sisters,  wives, 
Dawdled  like  drones  in  their  domestic  hives. 
Just  then,  when  Sapphos  sung  on  every  steep,— 
Though,  haply,  none  plunged  headlong  in  the  deep — 
When  Delia  Crusca,  fond  and  fragile  thing, 
Soft,  sweet  and  stupid,  reigned  supernal  king ; 
When  hearts  to  darts,  and  love  to  dove  were  strung, 
And  trees  and  breeze  resounded  from  the  tongue ; 


33 

When  Juno,  Venus,  Cupid,  Vulcan,  Mars, 
And  all  the  gods,  from  whom  were  named  the  stars, 
And  all  the  goddesses  who  sate,  where  high 
Olympus  towers  above  the  azure  sky, 
Were  by  sheer  force  lugged  into  feeble  verse 
To  gild  a  blessing  or  to  smooth  a  curse. 
Then,  then,  like  sunshine  on  a  vale  of  mist, 
With  power  that  dullness  never  could  resist, 
A  critic  rose ;  his  bright  pen  darting  made 
Strokes  swift  and  keen  as  Arthur's  famous  blade. 
Their  ranks  o'erthrown,  the  Delia  Cruscan  train 
Bedewed  with  ink  the  literary  plain ; 
Sometimes  they  rallied,  but  that  mighty  pen 
Flashed  in  the  air,  and  scattered  them  again. 
With  feathers  drooping  and  with  paper  spoiled, 
The  ladies  saw  how  needlessly  they  toiled  j 


34 

Then  came  that  "sober,  second  thought,"  which  rules 
More  female  breasts  than  dogmas  taught  in  schools. 
With  graceful  ease  they  yielded  up  the  lyre, 
And  on  Home's  altar  lit  the  perished  fire ; 
Happy  once  more,  nor  emulous  of  fame, 
They  joined  with  men  in  blessing  Gifford's  name. 


Since  thus  supinely  Delia  Crusca  fell, 

Few  lovesick  nymphs  have  struck  the  chorded  shell ; 

But  youths  of  sterner  sex  and  weaker  stuff 

Dose  the  dear  public  with  bad  lines  enough. 

Whatever  happens,  be  it  gay  or  sad, 

Ten  thousand  poetasters  rave,  like  mad. 

If  steam-boat  boilers  into  shivers  blow, 

If  some  lone  damsel  stub  her  precious  toe ; 


35 

If  great  men  die,  as  small  ones  always  do, 

If  "  sudden  frogs"  leap  wildly  into  view ; 

If  ships  at  sea  by  angry  storms  be  tost, 

Or  a  pet  lap-dog  run  away  and  lost ; 

If  sinks  the  "  sun  with  battle-stained  eye;" 

Or  little  babes  like  little  cherubs  cry ; 

If  states  repudiate  and  swindlers  flee, 

Or  thou,  oh, "  woodman,"  wilt  not "  spare  that  tree ;" 

If  aught  transpire  that  often  has  before, 

And  will  occur  as  many  times  and  more — 

As  sure  as  fate,  they  each  are  jotted  down, 

And  some  moon's  minion  wins  a  month's  renown. 

Oh,  it  offends  me  to  the  soul  to  hear 

Such  poor  flies  buzzing  in  the  public  ear ; 

And  yet,  like  uncle  Toby,  I  would  say, 

Deluded  insects,  buzz  your  hours  away ! 


36 

To  blow  your  tiny  trumpets  ye  are  free, 
"  The  world  is  wide  enough  for  you  and  me." 
Ye  solemn  dunces !  publish  if  you  must, 
Till  Pope  and  Milton  are  consigned  to  dust ; 
Then  may  your  stanzas  be  admired  by  men, 
Though  much  I  question  if  'twill  be  till  then. 
Write  reams  of  nonsense-verses  without  end, 
That  even  yourselves  can  hardly  comprehend. 
Address  "  short  sonnets"  to  your  mistress  fair, 
And  vow  that  angels  can't  with  her  compare ; 
Tell  her  she  conquers  kingdoms  with  a  glance, 
And  that  her  charms  like  brilliant  hosts  advance, 
And  that  she  is — all  ladies  far  above — 
"  The  grand  Napoleon  of  the  world  of  love." 
Break  Priscian's  head,  strike  Lindley  Murray  dumb ; 
Heaven's  thunder  liken  to  a  dreadful  drum  ; 


37 

Invoke  the  stars,  bright  wheeling  round  our  globe, 

As  twinkling  jewels  on  a  purple  robe  ; 

And  call  fair  Cynthia,  when  she  sails  in  sight, 

"  Thou  breast-pin  on  the  bosom  of  the  night ;" — 

It  matters  not :  true  passion  still  will  glow 

In  manly  hearts,  and  genuine  feeling  flow. 

It  matters  not :  the  thunder  still  will  roll, 

The  stars  still  burn,  undimmed,  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  moon  still  shine,  and  day  succeed  to  day, 

Though  magpies  chatter  and  though  asses  bray. 


When  first  the  infant  sees  a  candle  blaze, 
His  feeble  eyes  are  dazzled  by  the  rays  ; 
But,  grown  familiar  with  the  splendid  sight, 
His  chubby  fingers  strive  to  grasp  the  light ; 


38 

The  prudent  nurse  restrains  the  rash  desire, 

Nor  burns  the  child  to  make  it  dread  the  fire. 

So  honest  critics  should  rebuke  the  boys 

Who  want  to  trifle  with  poetic  toys  : 

Let  them  have  other  weapons  used  by  men, 

But  not  that  dang'rous  implement,  the  pen. 

With  swords  and  guns  they  may  some  mischief  do, 

And  windows  break  which  glaziers  can  renew ; 

But  sense  once  outraged  deeply  we  deplore, 

And  lost  good-temper  nothing  can  restore. 


V. 

Thus  by  examples,  not  sublimely  sung, 

Like  any  thing  but  "pearls,  at  random  strung/' 


39 

Have  I  essayed,  perhaps  in  vain,  to  show 
Why  Verse  in  modern  days  has  fall'n  so  low ; 
Why  that  high  Art,  from  age  to  age  renowned, 
By  Valour  courted  and  by  Beauty  crowned, 
Which  won  more  honours  from  the  fair  and  bold 
Than  now  are  lavished  on  victorious  gold ; — 
Scorned  by  the  many,  by  the  few  caressed, 
No  longer  triumphs  in  the  human  breast. 
No  longer  triumphs !    What !  has  Faith  decayed 
Can  Friendship  falter  and  Affection  fade  ? 
Can  Pity  fail,  and  Passion  quench  his  fire, 
And  Hope  and  Fear,  and  Joy  and  Grief  expire  1 
Can  tearful  Sympathy  and  vocal  Mirth, 
And  all  that  saddens,  all  that  gladdens  Earth, 
Depart  like  shadows  in  the  morning-hour, 
Melt  like  the  frost  and  perish  like  the  flower  ? 


40 

They  cannot  die  !  they  are  themselves  the  soul, 
Which,  born  in  Heaven,  exults  o'er  Time's  control. 
These  are  the  founts  of  Heliconian  streams, 
And  these  the  shapes  that  haunt  the  poet's  dreams; 
While  they  exist,  the  noble  art  they  gave 
Laughs  at  Oblivion  and  defies  the  grave. 


END. 


M214851 


& 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


